


FL1P

by SuperImposed



Series: Kinkfills: Dubcon Edition [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bondage, Dubious Consent, F/M, Fucking typequirk accents, Interrogation, Kinkfill, Psionic Bondage, potentially noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 21:18:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1319530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperImposed/pseuds/SuperImposed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Terezi/Lemonsnout<br/>...Lemonsnout actually being more humanoid. trollanoid. whatever for this. But a court proceeding kink? Interrogation with sex? Asphyxiation?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. FL1P

**Author's Note:**

> http://homesmut.dreamwidth.org/7113.html?thread=9536457#cmt9536457

He’s sitting silently at his desk when you find him, fingers steepled, elbows planted on dark metal. His silent smugness irks you. Your ruined eyes itch behind tinted glasses in a way they haven’t for sweeps.  
  
You slam the heavy metal door shut behind you, trademark grin growing as you approach.  
  
“To what do II owe the....plea....sure?”  
  
He pauses slightly on the last word, as if it has trouble escaping his mouth.  
  
You swing your cane up, slanting it in front of your neck, then down, slapping it into a palm. Your gloved fingers twist delicately around it, wringing the metal as you would a neck.  
  
“Why Senator,” you smirk to see his impassive expression twist slightly at your own odd pronunciation. Suddenly you slap the cane down onto his desk, and are gratified to see him jump. You lean in close, close enough to smell his mismatched eyes and the namesake scar on his nose.  
  
“Don’t act like you don’t know.”  
  
FL1P


	2. H34DS

He quirks a liquorice brow, the tiniest trickle of sugar-glaze sweat starting on his back. A cold concrete finger tugs slightly at a stiff snow collar. “II’m ...sure II have no iidea.”  
  
You drop the cane and slam both hands down on the desk, leaning almost nose-to-nose with him. Apple-berry blast eyes widen as your grin drops into a snarl.  
  
“Embezzling government funds, Senator? Did you think you wouldn’t be caught?”  
  
He’s strong, but his powers take a slight delay to start, and you’ve bagged bigger prey than even him. As burning ozone and delicious red and blue fill your nose, your hand is already whipping out liquorice cable.  
  
The length is designed to hold trolls of both strength and power, and his abilities die under its touch. As you bind him to the metal chair, bright sparks sting you - even this does not fully contain him. You remedy that with a strip of psychic-proof tape, slapping it down over formidable chompers. He screams with rage behind it.  
  
You swing yourself over the desk, straddling the struggling troll. His wide eyes become wider, the glasses having fallen off some time during your struggle.  
  
“I have some questions for you,” you murmur. He smells confused. Of course he does; how is he supposed to answer gagged?   
  
You chuckle. “But I’ll wait for answers. Trust me....” you lean in until your noses almost bump. “...when I’m through here,” you whisper, “you won’t hold back a thing.”  
  
He snarls at you again. “Uncooperative? I can fix that.” He yelps behind the tape when you yank his shirt open and off, then goes remarkably quiet. Apparently not the type to raise a fuss over clothing. Hmm.  
  
You lean down and lick his torso from hip to shoulder, avoiding the cable when necessary. He shivers as you smack your lips. Cold concrete, yucky mustard, burning apple-berry psionics....  
  
and the distinct taste of _corruption_.  
  
You smirk as you step off his lap, yanking his pants off. The Senator gives a muffled yowl as you do so. Your smell-o-vision is tuned enough to tell that he is eyeing your teeth with trepidation. You give a toothy smirk, just for the hell of it. He’s obviously convinced you’re going slap before stroke. Speaking of which....  
  
Hours later, when the room is painted with mustard and teal, the Senator exhaustedly admits to funneling money to a rebel. You mull this information over.  
  
If he’s at the point where a yellow-blood’s embezzled funds are of aid, then the rebel is indbitably small time. On the other hand, Lemonsnout had been a patriotic troll before this turnabout. And no threat, no matter how small, to the Empire should be ignored. JUST1C3 must be done.  
  
You decide to pay this sufferer a visit.


	3. T41LS

You caught him on a good - or, from your perspective, bad - day. The Senator holds back a sneer, and you feel like a grub under his scorn. “Pathetiic,” he says, adding salt to the wound. You scowl, trying to recover your lead.  
  
“D-don’t-” shit, you stuttered, “play coy with me, Senator. I know you’ve been embezzling funds from the treasury.”  
  
“Do you?” He stands now, and DAMN is he tall, quirking one black liquorice stripe over delicious apple red. “And where ....iis your proof?”  
  
You can almost hear your teeth grind. You don’t HAVE proof, not yet. But by the time you could have acquired the necessary warrants, the information would have been ‘accidentally destroyed’, and by the time you could have recovered anything from THAT mess, he would be gone under completely non-suspicious circumstances.  
  
You’d planned to get a confession out of him, saving the entire L34GU3 a headache of process.  
  
“Inside your head, dear Senator,” you manage, and for once don’t sound like an idiot or a grub.  
  
You go for the rope but his powers queue up first. Red and blue each take a wrist in a gentle grip, and the cable flies away. He smirks, and you scowl. Ozone burns inside your sinuses as you’re dragged just slightly up, floating a few inches about the carpet. He ambles over to the binding, almost casually.  
  
“And what were you planniing to do wiith ...thiis, Redglare?” That smirk is beginning to madden you; your vision goes blurry as you stop breathing for a moment from sheer rage.  
  
The shackles falter and almost release, but then he’s dropping the black length out the window, and the power resumes as if never interrupted.  
  
His smug expression goes terrifyingly sour. “II ...asked you a ... _questiion_ ,” he growls.  
  
Your throat is scratchy and dry as you answer. “Just the usual legislaceration techniques....” Your smirk is faltering against your will.  
  
He backhands you, albeit lightly, looking bored. “Legiislacerators have ...anythiing-goes ...rules,” he comments. “Be more ...speciifiic.”  
  
You know quite well how painful the truth can be, especially as it now drags itself unbidden off your tongue. “Tie you down, of course,” you find yourself saying, “and maybe fuck an answer out of you.”  
  
He goes stonily silent. Your eyes are clamped shut, a pointless exercise. You flinch as the backs of his knuckles ghost over your cheek.  
  
“...So ...that’s the way iit ….iis,” he murmurs, not unkindly. You mentally order your eyes to stop dispensing delicious, smell-o-vision-blurring tears, to no avail.  
  
The ‘grip’ on your wrists remains surprisingly gentle as you’re dragged onto the desk. Your back arches against the metal, trying to escape. A slim hand presses lightly against your chest, forcing you back with ease.  
  
Tingling psionics strafe your body. You hold back whimpers and cries as your uniform is easily undone, falling quietly to the floor.  
  
You can’t hold the sounds back when his hand grazes your energy-storage nodes, slowly stroking down your torso. You try not to mewl when he comes close to your seedflap; you came into this planning to dominate him, so why are you so frightened of a reversal?  
  
To his credit, the Senator is surprisingly tender. Wet heat drags against a node and you really can’t stifle your sounds much longer. He can apparently tell, because a warm hand rubs almost reassuringly at your neck. “Let iit out,” he whispers, moist breath on your flesh creating shivers. His moth clamps carefully down on your node again and you cry out, teal staining your cheeks with shame.  
  
A soft finger gently wipes away your tears as he presses a toothy kiss to your mouth. Before you have the presence of mind to bite, his head is moving away and his hand is slipping down and your vision 3XPLOD3S in rainbow colors when his fingers probe your seedflap.

After the first admission- emission of sound, your throat can’t close back up. Your noises get louder and louder as he teasingly prods and rubs sensitive places on you; you get especially high-pitched when clawed digits carefully enter your nook, slicking it with your own fluids and stretching you carefully. Why is he fucking around with your nook if he’s already got your seedflap ready?  
  
It doesn’t take long to find out why; your arms slowly draw and twist over your head as the Senator hovers over you, hot breath on your neck and dry hand on your horns. He kisses you again and you kiss back, wet and passionate in a way you know you shouldn’t be.  
  
Then his bulge is doing what bulges do, except doing it twice as much and twice as well. A soft ‘oh’ escapes you as you realize why he prepped both entrances; then you’re screaming in ecstasy and he’s holding you close and psionics are dancing near-burningly over your skin. You smell a sharp wave of mustard as you dragged freed hands down his back; green apple-blueberry joins it as his mouth closes on your shoulder.  
  
You are finally allowed to collapse, exhausted, against the desk, warm fluids running down your legs and over the edge. Your vision returns in time to smell the Senator straightening his suit, grabbing your cane, and absconding like a coolkid.  
  
When you finally recover you realize that your uniform was under the desk and now completely soaked.  
  
Dammit all.


End file.
